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"Tell the Devil...I'm Gettin' There As Fast As I Can," Books, and Random Psychosis

Excuse the large print, but my eyes are getting progressively worse, and experimenting with another font makes me want to see it in big-ass print. I suppose it also stands out enough that someone will actually read this.

It's been a few weeks since I got back from vacation, and I never did really finish off what I was doing all that last week of July-first week of August up in Maine. And what I found when I got back.

I generally did not feel like coming back. The "If I had my way..." thing makes me consider retirement up there, the way my sister and brother in law have done. It's either somewhere in Portland, or one of those forsaken places out in the middle of nowhere, where a rifle is the necessary piece of equipment when you venture out.

There's good writing material in either of those locales, and as usual my brain has too many ideas, either too similar or too twisted to be turned into anything yet.

But I the new Ray Wylie Hubbard CD going, hence our title, and it's another dark, creepy exploration of Ray's psyche. Most appropriate.

Maine...okay. In search of old radio friends, catching up with Susan and Rob and trying to figure out how I'm going to live the next 20 years before "retirement" (not happening), I will look back at whatever it was I did.

Now, S/R live in Freeport, and once you get past LL Bean and the outlet stores, what is there?

Yeah. The train runs through it now. Actually, it's pretty nice, and I ventured back up the Mid-Coast to see various people but also to reconnect to a place that needed to be scoped out once more.

How's about that? Popham Beach, about 7 in the am. Now to get here is a long, thin, snaky two-lane road out of Bath to the sea. The smell of the ocean comes miles before you get there; green, marshes, waterways, weird old houses, fire stations, post offices, schools, all sufficiently small, as are the churches, the libraries, the convenience stores and odd spots.

I hit the road very early, because I did not want this beach to be overrun by the "Summer Complaints," or before the ocean-view tourists got their asses up.

Dark, down past the odd stones, the state park, the weird fences, sand blown onto the road, and then that turn down alongside the beach. It is a sight still, despite my first viewing of it in the mid-70's, it still captures your imagination.

I have not been here in 15 years or so, and I needed to see those homes and properties down the road between me and the beach. The campground is gone, and homes are expensive, with nice driveways, and a high-dollar exuding of something.

Susan first visited here back in the late 60's, which I did not know about. All the old homes of the rich, from way back were long taken by the sea, and any houses down here now are set way back, some dragged back. The old Life-Saving Station is still there, a museum of sorts now.

Down to the end, Fort Popham still guards the entrance to the ocean from the Kennebec. The water has moved in, less of the beach than I thought. The little cottages and homes, a tiny library, a small church, all still here. I started from the restaurant, next to the cabins we used to use for one week every summer, 70's to the early 00's, or rather my family did after I went to school.

The long walk down the beach was a workout, hot as hell at 6 am already. Fishermen, surf-casters not much more...the walk I took so many times, a good couple miles down around the point, where that picture was taken, looking back.

The sea was cold as hell, but I availed myself of it. Just a few tourists, oddly out of place people from different parts of the US and the world, but I didn't need to know about them. Getting back to that open spot, and again seeing these places has put the scene for a new one in my head. It's not even a major scene, but a plot point.

Back in time for Spinney's to open for breakfast. Monday morning here is dead time. The inside of the restaurant now has a small bar with overpriced drinks; guess now they turn into Margaritaville every night.

Job done. Later I would see old radio friends in Bath, in Portland and sit in for an interview for "Live from the Cafe" at WMPG Radio.

Christopher White does a good interview, and I stuck around for DJPJ and Jump Time, 40's and 50's swing mostly. I knew Pete from Rocky Horror days. Fun.

So for the few days I just bummed about, but I did also go back to St. Joe's for a meeting with Sue McAuliffe, who is retired from the school, but did a lot for the alumni office. Great seeing her, and getting more info about my school's growth after 30 years.

So the tour did well, so back to PA, and the state remains without a revenue package to fill its budget, the Senators are out of the Eastern League playoffs before they even get started, and I'm considering many things.

"Live from the Cafe." This story really does resonate with people. My recent book signing in York at i-ron-ic leads me to feel that people will be taken back home, to find what's there, what's missing, and also to reconsider that change will occur, whether you like it or not.

Then we have the bullshit going on in Charlottesville, and every other place. It's like this for me...if you support people who believe their skin color or background makes them superior to others just because of that... must have a real inferiority complex. You must feel really threatened by something you can't even see.

All the fluffy, big words, sniffing and snorting, and dancing around the subject at hand are epic fails at your mansplaining or whatever it is you call it.

"Jews will not replace us." Do you actually think you will be replaced? By Jews? Or others?

And then there's the "butwhatabout?"

Butwhatabout Antifa, butwhatabout BLM, butwhatabout female gamers, butwhatabout the faked moon landing, butwhatabout the need to equate my hate with something that makes me look not so hateful?

Butwhatbout you look at yourself in the mirror...and grow the fuck up.

Put your pants on and stop bitching. Words and actions have consequences. If you lose your job because you marched in a Nazi rally, threw the Hitler salute, screamed about Jews, and got into a fight with people, you have YOU to blame for it.

It's called being bad for business. I am not saying that's right, either. That is an employer's decision.

If you drop the N-bomb, be ready to hear about that from someone else. If you heap slurs upon Muslims, gays, anyone different than you, you're gonna hear about it.

If you threaten someone with physical violence or death, it is a crime, a felony. Do not be surprised that doesn't get you fired, if not jailed as well.

You have a right to how you feel, and a right to say what you want--the First Amendment protects you from the government arresting you and/or prosecuting you for something you say.

That does not mean you can't lose your job, your place at university, and so forth.

Your excuses and attempts at deflection do you no good.

I'll defend your right to say what you want, what you post on Facebook, and your right to express those things.

Just remember: I will exercise the same right to let you know your opinion is shit.

But I digress.

I got some nice news about by 2016 release, "A Moment in the Sun." The book picked up another finalist nomination for Young Adult fiction, and it won Red City's Review's honor for the genre.

That's pretty cool, and the magazine has a write-up of my book, plus that of all the winners. Very nice indeed.

Working on the storyline for another idea, which is taking its time to work out to a story that makes any sense. I have others to write, others to read over, others to consider, and we need to get ready for the next one.

All in good time I guess. I do realize that my writing is starting to frantic up again, and I'm also feeling a strange distraction. Anxiety, that feeling of being eaten alive by fire ants, and rushes of energy followed by sheer exhaustion.

It's not caffeine or sugar induced. Not sure what it is. But I am alive.

Let's see how much more trouble we can cause, shall we? It seems to find me, despite my best efforts to string it along until I can figure out what to do with it.

Let's try to stop screaming at each other online, 'cause you know we don't have the stones to do that shit to each other's faces. And if we do, we best prepare for one hell of a fight and blood all over the walls. It's gotten that fucking dumb.

Let's try and be nice a little bit. Ronnie Earl counseled guitar players at a class last year to be kind to yourself, and that's not just because you can't play for crap, and he can.

Let's do some of that shit, and get on with life.

Peace, Out.

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